Hands and Arms
by Verda Napoli
Summary: Set somewhere in 4.13. Avery and Opie are lost in the past as they deal with their present struggles. The third and final piece to "Ain't No Grave" and "Balancing the Scale". Way AU. Spoiler warning for Seasons 4 and 5.
1. Chapter 1

_**(Season 4&5 spoiler warning**_**. I talk about both in my A/N and in the story. You've been warned.) **

**Yeah, I know, I suck. Due to lack of time and interest in the show, I contemplated giving up fanfic completely. But then, a few nights ago, I decided to skim through my files and came across this little gem. Honestly, I wrote this out just after S4 ended (Dec '11) and had intended it to be the conclusion to my "Ain't No Grave" and "Balancing the Scales" one shots but the big finale never came to me. **

**The events of 5.03 absolutely wrecked me to the point that I stopped watching the show for two weeks. (I did catch up recently. I did watch "Stolen Huffy" which did not impress me at all. "Orca Shrugged" was slightly better only because it was so gratifying for me to see Jax get beat on by an old (albeit sexy) dude.) I feel like everything Sutter does now is for shock value. Also, for someone he claims to have "inside info" on The Life, he fails to grasp the 1% rules, codes and ideals.**

**But anyhoodle, I'm taking this WAY AU with some canon included. Though this won't be some fairytale, I need Opie to have a happier ending than the one he got on the show. This is the third and final piece to "Ain't No Grave" and "Balancing the Scales" trilogy. This will either end with the next chapter or go on for maybe 3 more. Leaning more towards the former as my record for finishing stories sucks. **

**I claim nothing, except Avery. **

"_The world is crashing down on me and I can't find a reason to be loved/ I never want to leave you/ and I believe it's easier for you to let me go. You put your arms around me and I'm home" Christina Perri 'Arms' _

A mostly empty wine glass. Soft, clean cotton against the bare skin of her lower legs. The smell of Snuggles fabric softener and lavender scented candles. Cool, still tucked sheets on the other side of her California king. Yes, _hers_. Cause it's not like the other _occupant _of this house is ever around.

Her blood feels electric, the jolts causing her to rise to her feet. The beige colored rug feels coarse against her bare feet and she's wondering why she didn't have it removed when she bought the place. The master bedroom is the only part of the house that's carpeted and for whatever reason that really bothers her tonight. Her feet carry her to the large walk in closet that's half hers. Well, mostly hers.

His corner of the closet is unlike that of any other man's she's ever known. He's immaculate, no sign of dust or dirt. Meticulously organized-thermals, flannels, hoodies, and jeans all ironed and hung up. Boots and sneakers lined in perfect, ordered pairs on the shoe rack. She doesn't even need to look in his drawers to see that his tee shirts, boxers, and socks are ordered. She supposes this is a product of his female dominated upbringing. Either that or because he's used to cleaning up after his 'night job'. Either way, she's tempted to rearrange everything. Or maybe something more drastic. Throw the burning candle on his nightstand into his belongings.

Yet she does nothing.

That's such a common reaction from her nowadays. To not react. No words. No comebacks. No flying fists or screams. She knows that it's not apathy. It's not defeat, not yet at least. It's rage. Pure, unaltered fire that burns from the inside out. Staring down the business ends of guns, going toe to toe in the courtroom with the federal fucking government, death-nothing scares her as much as this monster that's just stewing inside of her. Her mother once compared her temper to Mount Vesuvius erupting. Avery never knew the true meaning of that statement.

Until now.

She used to think that rage was something caused an immediate reaction. An angry outburst that couldn't be controlled. Impulse. Violence. But Avery knows she isn't impulsive or violent. Well, not unless she needs to be. To be perfectly honest she has no idea who she is anymore. She can hear the wisdom of an old friend ringing in her ears.

"_We don't know who we are until we're connected to someone else." _

Avery doesn't feel connected to anyone anymore. Her mother's dead. Her Pops has one foot in the grave already. She feels so far away from the person she was closest to. She supposes this is par for the course. Neither of them have particularly good communication skills. They're both contained by nature and have jobs that require one hell of a pokerface. With all of their occupational pressures, frequent fucking and nightly dinners have slowly turned into occasional phone calls and passing each other in the hallways.

The ringing of her prepay interrupts her thought process. Its loud, shrill ringtone cuts through the thick air. She turns in the direction of the noise, but chooses to ignore it.

Silence. But then it starts again.

Something, she isn't sure what, compels her to step out of the closet and away from her 'rage'. Her long, mostly bare legs eat up the distance between the closet and the nightstand. She flips the phone open without as much as a glance at the caller id.

"Hello?"

"Avery, it's Ope."

Of course. The irony of how perfect his timing _isn't_ is not lost on her. Nor is how inappropriate this phone call is. But she's still glad to hear his voice just the same.

**~(&)~**

She's mostly silent on the other end. He can hear her even breath quicken. To his surprise, he can feel it too. Hot, cinnamon laced breaths on his raw, wind burnt skin. The silky expanse of caramel colored curves underneath his rough, calloused fingers. Her long, delicate hands probing and rubbing his tightened muscles simultaneously easing his tension and bringing him to the point of release. She's an expert multi tasker, that's for damn sure.

"What do you need?" she asks. He can hear so much of what she isn't saying. And he knows that her mind is on overdrive.

"I need a lift" he tells her, wanting to leave out the 'where' part but knows he can't. He could ask her to meet him around the block but then again she'd know where he had been. She never turned a blind eye. Even when she said nothing, she knew everything. She was so much like Otto in that respect. "From St. Thomas."

"I'll be there in a few minutes" she replies in a quiet voice that he can't exactly read. Her calm is unexpected, but welcome.

"Thanks." He snaps the phone shut and takes one last look at his bandaged wrist. The second worst and best thing he's done in the past 24 hours.

**~(&)~**

Black sweats, a sea blue hoodie pulled over a white tee, and a pair of grey and blue Nikes-not her finest fashion moment.

She removes her headscarf and unwraps her hair before pulling it into a bushy ponytail. As she eyes the five inch Valentino peep toe pumps-cream colored with black lace embroidery-that she wore that day, she quickly reflects on how anal she is about her appearance. Her coiffed hair and carefully applied make up, pencil skirts and pretty pumps-costumes and a mask to hide herself away with. But she knows that it's about more than hiding. She likes how she looks, but more so she likes that _other people_ like how she looks. She knows that makes her vain and at the moment, she doesn't particularly give a shit. She momentarily remembers a psychology professor lecturing on how good looking people have more opportunities. _God bless genetics then_, Avery thinks.

Her white on black Bentley Continental Flying Spur hugs the curves tightly. She taps on the gas lightly; knowing that anything harder than a gentle prod with her foot will attract a lot of attention. Her latest present to herself is worth every penny, she's decided, and every dirty look her Old Man has given her since he laid eyes on it. She knows he doesn't like that she makes more money than him. That she can take care of herself and doesn't need a goddamn thing from him. Never did, never will.

But he isn't really in the forefront of her mind right now. For reasons unbeknownst to her, she's thinking about hands. Her mother always had beautiful hands. Small and soft with creamy shade and texture. Avery remembers that they were always cold; cold hands, warm heart. Yeah, that was Luann. She flashes back on John Teller's funeral. She stands to the left her mother, her eyes trained on Opie as he holds sobbing Jax. She's trying so hard to be strong, but a few rogue tears roll down her cheeks. Out of nowhere, she felt a hand envelope her own. Long, warm hands squeezed her own cold, nearly numb ones back to life. Her eyes flew to them and then to the person they belonged to. Otto gave her an approving nod, as if he was giving her permission to break down a little. Pops was never a man of many words, but he certainly knew how to make a statement.

The last pair on her mind are big and gentle, much like the demeanor of who they're attached to. Hardened and rough from years of working with them. They know every curve of her body, of her soul as if both belonged to him. And truth be told, they do. Although he hasn't seen her this way in years, he knows exactly how to touch, kiss, and lick every part of her nakedness. She's been with someone else for years, but there's still a part of her that's so tuned into him that it's impossible to shut down. His urges, her needs-their craving for one another has become painful to ignore. So they don't.

**~(&)~**

Her eyes nearly double in size as he watches her look at his bandaged wrist. A jagged pang of guilt stabs at his heart. She's worried, as she usually is but this time it's because of him. He knows she needs a break from her life and the noise in her head. He likes to be that reprieve for her, but tonight he's just another burden. Fucking great.

'Wouldn't It Be Nice' by the Beach Boys is playing on low and it's light upbeat mood completely contrasts with the heavy, anxious vibe inside of the cage. Avery was herself-reserved and wordless. He could see the chink in her dented armor though. Her hands trembled.

"You loved this song when we were kids" Opie comments in hope that a little reminiscing will open up her flood gates. He used to revel in her silence. But now he can't stand it a moment longer.

She turns to him briefly, nodding her agreement. She blows out a breath and offers "I remember". He can tell this isn't easy for her. She's trying though. And her eyes and body are saying so much more than her mouth is.

A realization slams into him hard. Harder than that bullet that his ex-best friend pumped into his wrist. This is Avery. Not Lyla, not some croweater, not some woman who is his blood but he can barely stand to be around whether it's because of bitterness or guilt. This is _his_ Avery.

He remembers her at 10, big haired and metal mouth. He's heard the talk about Otto's new squeeze and the fact that she had a fucking kid shocked the shit out of anyone who knew the Sergeant at Arms. With a mother for a porn star, Opie wasn't exactly sure what to expect of this girl. His feelings for the girl who he first saw standing on the Teller's backporch are overwhelming, even at first glance. He learns her name is Avery and she's more invested in books than people. Well, at least that's how she seems.

She starts out near mute; barely saying more than 'hello' and answering when someone asks how she is. Opie quickly learns that she's nervous, not aloof. She's not really close to anyone except for her mom and she's unsure as to how to act around a bunch of crass bikers and their often catty Old Ladies. He learns that she's really funny and smart and sassy inside that head of hers, but so rarely do her thoughts form into words. He's grown up around Jax, so someone who thinks before they talk is really sort of refreshing.

Unlike anyone he's met before her, she fascinates him. She devours books two at a time and drinks more coffee than most of the adults he knows. She always smells like vanilla and her curls feel like soft wool between his fingers. She's obsessed with the history of the True IRA, even though she has no idea that's where the club's guns come from. She wears her cowboy boots in 90 degree weather. The smile on her kiss swollen lips as he pulls away from her is enough to make him want to push her to move farther faster, but he knows she isn't ready.

Their first time was in the summer of 1993. She wore a bright yellow shirt and made the first move. He doesn't know what her motivation is, but he's not about to question her. He can barely get all the way inside of her and he feels terrible that he's causing her pain, but nothing's ever felt so right. She's everything to him. He's known this for some time, but being inside of her confirms it. She's where he belongs.

And that hasn't changed.

**~(&)~**

"Where are we going?"

She knows she probably should ask where she should drop him off. Or perhaps enquire as to what happened to him. But she's never thought clearly in his presence.

He shrugs, but doesn't answer. His silence serves as her GPS. She knows exactly where she's going to take them.

**Thanks for reading. Review if you feel so inclined. I'd love to hear from you. Oh and ****Happys Hitwoman**** and ****MelanthiaChase-****I haven't forgotten you lovely, talented ladies! Expect to hear from me in the next day or so. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry this took so long. And is so short. I'm going to try to wrap this up in 3, but I'll probably push it to four. As always, all respectful reviews are welcome. Author's note at the end announces future projects. **

Opie should've known she'd bring him here.

He rests his wary body against the hood of the car, holding her against him as they look out at the streams. He leans down, buries his face in her hair and takes a big breath. He's amazed by the fact that her smell is still so familiar to him. Her vanilla lotion and musk spray mix into an aroma that's delicate and sweet yet strong and unyielding, very much like the woman wearing it.

"We haven't been here in so long."

Avery isn't one for small talk. Her words are sparse and softly spoken, but effective and straight to the point. While he's drowning in a sea of half-truths and bullshit, he clings to this quality like a buoy. At the same time, he knows that her stating the obvious is a telltale sign that she's nervous. Or stalling. Considering their current predicament, he doesn't blame her at all.

But that's the thing. It's _their_ current predicament. They're in this together. And whatever happens, he's protecting her. Whatever the cost, she's getting out of this alive, unharmed. He'll burn the whole fucking club to the ground before he lets them hurt another person he loves, her especially. Hell, they'd deserve it. All the damage they'd done, all the lives lost-Donna, Luann, Sack, Kozik, Pop-all victims, both direct and indirect, of the destructive path paved by Clay.

_And Jax. _

Without thinking, his bad hand clenched into a fist, sending razor sharp pains up his whole arm. Fitting, considering the knife currently residing in his back courtesy of his former best friend. Physical and emotional pain runs through his body on two separate circuits and he winces.

"Maybe we should hit the twenty four hour and fill that prescription, baby."

He can feel her anxiety coming to the surface in the form of proactivity. She's never been a coddler or a worrier, just a problem solver. A product of Big Otto's parenting, he assumes.

"I'm fine" he lies even though he knows that she knows he's full of shit.

"Bullshit" she vocalizes, pulling away to stand at her full five foot seven inches and give him a look of authority that looks so out of place on her round, almost cherubic face. "Don't be a tough guy, baby. If it hurts, then you…"

"I'll fill it later" he assures her, mostly just to pacify her. He doesn't want to think about pills, his wrist, or anything in the present. He wants to lose himself in her perfume and the scenery, remember the days of old when they would lay in the back of her Jeep sweaty and satisfied, hatch popped, joint smoke wafting between them. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they didn't. When they were seventeen, during his prospect period and last year of high school, he thought of this place as their home away from home. No club. No parents. Nothing in between them except for the fabric of the Seminole quilt that protected them from the elements. He loved peeling the colorful covering back, watching her ballet dancer body illuminated the opalescent moon. She looked angelic, but the things her body did to him, the words she whispered when she was high, uninhibited and hungry could make the devil blush. Between school and prospecting and working at the garage, he was often running on empty. But Avery replenished him, brought him to life in ways he never imagined.

Sixteen years, she has the same affect; only now, it's stronger, more intense than it had been when they were young. Her delicate fingers are attached to hands that are more confident, but still coachable and every bit as eager to please. Despite all that she's seen, her dark green eyes still spark with a lust he's never seen in other women he's been with. Not distracted Donna or dead eyed, jaded Lyla. When he's inside of Avery, her walls grip him with purpose, letting him know that as much as that ink on her back claims her as his, he's just as much hers.

**~(&)~**

His small, green blue eyes are dark, the flecks of light gray turning into a deep shade of charcoal. His breath is heavier, bottom lip dropping. She takes a step forward, reveling in the current of lust and love that flows steady as they steams behind them between them. She knows what she wants, what he wants too, but she doesn't know what to make of that.

"We need to talk" she forces out, hoping to steer them in a progressive direction.

He sighs heavily. "We do."

Time is a luxury they don't have, so she decides to cut straight to the chase. "I'm a full three months along. Soon, I'm going to start showing."

Opie nods in agreement. "And fast. Dad…" She watches his eyes flash from lustful to sad and she resists the urge to cry as she notices the absolute devastation through the rage. "That buys me a ticket out. "

She doesn't want to ask the question that's rolling down to the tip of her tongue. She wants the answer, but she understands that she's completely crossing a line. A biker's relationship with his club is so private, so intimate that regardless of her relation to said biker she feels uncomfortable asking.

"Do you want out?"

**~(&)~ **

Opie closes his eyes and thinks back to a time nearly four years ago when he told Donna that he'd just as soon take his own life than separate himself from The Life and live a lie. He had already given the club five years of his life and in that moment, he was giving them blind faith and unending loyalty. He didn't lose a wink of sleep over the predicament he put himself in because that's what you did. You took the hit for your club.

That is until the hit taken out on him killed his fucking _wife_.

Donna didn't deserve to pay his toll. His kids don't deserve to grow up motherless. Just like his Pops didn't deserve a bullet to the chest from the man who he sponsored.

Opie could live a thousand years and kill Clay a million times over, but that wouldn't bring Donna or his father back; wouldn't heal the scars on his soul or fill the two huge holes in his kid's lives. But he'd be damned if the club would hurt Avery or take her from him, again. He'd failed her once. He isn't seventeen and he won't have the wool pulled over his eyes by anyone.

"Yes." He watches her shiver and he doesn't know if it's nerves or residual lust from moments before. He reaches out, grabs her hand and kisses the tips of her fingers. "But that's on me, Avery. Not you. We're in this together, but I'll handle my shit with the club."

Her pointer finger skims his bottom lip. "I know." She looks up, her expression grave and determined. "And I'll handle _my shit_ with Happy."

That's what he fears the most.

**Okay so I've been on a rather long hiatus. Real life has been pulling me in so many different directions that I can barely stay on top of my day to day stuff, let alone find free time for fun stuff like fanfiction. Also, I really don't want to publish anything until I have a solid plot skeleton and a few chapters written. I'm currently very much invested in a revamp of my Avery/Opie/Hap 'Turtle Dove' centric stories. I feel like I've written myself into a corner and desperately want to clean a lot of inconsistencies, inaccuracies, and just plain lazy chapters up.**

**But before I publish anything (other than maybe a one shot or two) Avery centric, I'm working on a Lena/Jax piece. I'm scrapping the whole 'young Jax falls in love with mature teenager' bit for a darker, moodier, more adult piece. I've aged Lena a few years physically and mentally and added a backstory that pulls her out of the Charming environment. It's very AU with some Season 4 and 5 elements, namely the Byz Lat crew and Lena's 'tie' to one member in particular. I've also been working on a Chibs centric story that coincides with the last part of Jax/Lena's story. Check my profile for more details and publication dates! Thanks again. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry this is delayed. To quote another talented author on this site, the plot bunnies ran away from me. After a lot of cutting and editing, I've come up with something publishable. It's not perfect, but this was a selfish piece that was basically written to a) alleviate some of my grief over 5.03 and b)whet my writing appetite again. It's fluffy, extremely so, and yes a bit vague in the beginning. **

**And as always, I enjoy hearing all comments-positive and negative. I just ask that you do so with respect and courtesy to all parties, myself included. Thank you. **

The hooded lights shine a bright light on the black lacquered coffin that sits on the top of the carved Redwood table. Long ivory candles placed on wrought iron stands illuminate the room. Red and ivory roses wrap around the stands. Opal vases filled with the same combo are their decorative counterpart. The soft classical music that no one knew the man in the coffin loved to listen to in the morning plays through the speakers of strategically placed dock. The leather encased doors of chapel are closed.

Avery leans black against them, admiring her handy work as her shaking hands smoothing down the black high necked, pleat bottomed dress that goes a long way in concealing her baby bump. Though she has permission to be within the sacred, secretive walls of chapel, she feels out of place. Intrusive. Like she shouldn't be there. The walls feel like they're closing in on her and as her breathing becomes labored, there's a knock on the door.

Without permission, a slick blonde hair covered head pokes in. "You all good in here, darlin'?"

Though she's caught somewhere between the grief of her loss and the relief of not having to hide, she nods and somehow finds words. "I'm fine, Jax. Thank you."

The SAMCRO president watches her with concerned blue eyes, as if he's waiting on a cue as to how to proceed. Though she's never been a fan of Jackson Teller, she's thankful for the company and clings to a presence as a buoy to float her back to a simpler time in her life, in all of their lives.

"Come in, Jax" she tells him, extending a hand. "And please, close the door behind you."

Jax obliges her on both accounts. She closes her eyes, gripping his rough, ring laden hand and thinks back quite a few years. John Teller's death was a huge milestone in the history of SAMCRO-the loss of a king-but to Jackson, it was simply the loss of a parent. A piece from his flawed heart severed. Even as a teenager, Avery knew Jax was impulsive and selfish but that hadn't deterred her from trying to comfort him.

It had taken nearly twenty years to return the favor, but in Avery's mind it's better late than never.

"I'm sorry, Avery." He squeezes her hand, prompting her to open her eyes. "I'm so very sorry."

"Thank you" she replies, robotically as she lets go of his hand.

"The club will take care of you" he promises and before her anger can mount, he adds, "If you want."

"Thanks but no thanks" she answers, the tears she's been fighting coming to the forefront of her green eyes. She leaves of the details behind her reasoning. Besides it's not like Jax doesn't know. He has a hand in the mayhem, he must be soaked up to his elbows in the blood of her loved ones. "I think it's time for me to walk away."

He nods. "Yeah, Opie told me." Jax's soft sympathetic face hardens. "You know, we're voting tomorrow. Ope wants out."

"That's understandable."

Jax reaches out, his hands ghosting over her arms that she didn't realize were protectively banded over her belly. His eyes are discerning. "But I'm sure you already know that."

She backs away and he drops his hands back to his sides, no further explanation of his vague insinuation.

"As much as it kills me, I'm gonna let him out, Avery" Jax assures her. "And then the two of you are going to pack up, move as far away from this cancerous town as possible" his voice drops to a whisper that hints at both sadness and envy. "And have the chance I wish I could give my own family."

He kisses his fingertips and places them on her hands before exiting. "Good luck, darlin. Take care of him."

"I will" she swears to the closed door.

**~(&)~**

His leather hit the table with a light thud; a relieving noise, burden lifted. He hands the keys to his bike over to Chibs, making good on his promise to offer up his bike as his out tax.

"I've got an appointment with Freddy on Friday" he informs Jax, reaching back to tap his back piece. "Avery and I are leaving Saturday morning, so I'll leave the pictures with him."

Jax reaches forward, his arms shaking and his eyes wet. Opie accepts his embrace and even returns it, knowing he'll most likely never see the man that he's loved like a brother for all of his life again.

"Keep it" Jax says. "As a reminder that I'll always have your back."

_Wish I believed that_, Opie wants to reply but doesn't. His exit is long overdue and needs no interruption. Besides, he can't be mad. Jax allowing him to leave opens the door to a new life-one that contains everything he's ever wanted.

**Roughly six months later**

**Buffalo, NY **

Laney Grace Winston comes into the world in the middle of one of the largest snowstorms upstate New York has seen in years. She's small and pink with a tiny head full of her mother's deep auburn hair. Opie watches in possessive amazement as the nurses clean her up. Avery's exhausted sigh distracts him. He looks back to see his exhausted woman drop back against the pillows, accomplishment and joy written all over her face. Her hair is sticking up in every direction; She's sweaty and there are dark rings under her eyes but he doesn't think she's ever looked more beautiful.

"I love you." As they have in the past, the words just seem to fall from his lips. He presses his mouth to her fingertips, a familiar gesture.

She smiles wide. "I love you too."

Out the corner of his eye, he can see a nurse approach with holding his new daughter, another behind her holds a pair of scissors following. "You wanna do the honors, Dad?"

A wave of nostalgia hits him hard. He had cut the cord for Ellie and later on, Kenny. But so soon after the birth of his son, he got locked up. He missed five years. Five formative years of his children's lives. But this time would be different. Looking down into Laney's little red face, he made a silent vow that he wouldn't miss five seconds of her life.

**~(&)~**

Hours later, two sets of watery green eyes watch the little pink bundle as she sleeps. Avery leaned her exhausted body against Opie's, her soreness and emotions whirling around and bringing tears to her eyes.

"How do you feel?" he asks.

Despite the physical pain and the burning tears, she can't wipe away her smile. "Exhausted. Thrilled. Beat up. Elated."

He grins, Winston dimples coming out in full display. "A wide range, huh?"

"Guess the old phrase about still waters running deep is true" she quips, looking up at him from underneath her lashes. "But I'm happy, Opie. Really and truly, for the first time in a long time, completely happy."

"Me too" he agrees.

The silence between them is as comfortable as it's always been. Avery feels her exhaustion getting the better of her and her eyes begin to close on their own. They've completely rebuilt their lives-new home, new careers, getting Kenny, Ellie and Mary settled-but Avery knows their biggest, and most worthwhile, challenge is still to come. They've faced life threatening adversity and come out on the other side. Avery knows the future is as fickle as the east coast weather, but everything in the present indicates a good forecast. And she knows no matter what, the foundation she's built with Opie is strong enough to weather any storm.

Morning comes quickly and the safety blanket provided by Opie's physical presence has been ripped away. Her still sleepy eyes barely have time to adjust to the light when she notices him in the recliner, their precious pink bundle cradled in his cotton covered arms. He coos in a voice a few octaves high than his usual bass. His face twists and turns to match his words. He looks completely ridiculous and preteen Ellie wastes no time pointing that out to him. Avery is just trying her best not to cry for the millionth time in 24 hours.

"Good morning, Mommy" Opie says when he sees her, holding up Laney as he supplies the infant's yet to exist speaking voice.

"Good morning" Avery says groggily, immediately yanking at her gown and reaching for the baby. "She must be hungry."

Opie come over and sits on the stiff bed, shifting the baby into one arm as his big paw of hand gently helped Avery move the gown down.

"And that's my queue" Ellie declares, her boot heels clicking against the floor. "I'll be back _later_."

Avery takes Laney into her arms, making a note of the uncalled for emphasis on the last word and also, Opie's conspicuous nod and wink combination.

"Is there something going on?" she asks as Laney latched on.

With casualness she knows for a fact is feigned, Opie shrugs. "Not to my knowledge."

"I don't believe you" she sing songs, fixing him with a look to match her words.

"Baby." His massive calloused hands cup the tender, bare skin of her face. "Just relax and enjoy the ride."

"Okay" she acquiesces._ "For now." _

**~(&)~**

"You all set, Pop?" Kenny asks.

Running his plan down one last time in his head, Opie answers. "Yep." He holds up the parcel he just accepted from Kenny. "You okay with this?"

Kenny's face lights up, his vibrant blue eyes twinkle in a way that's reminiscent of both Piney and Donna. "I am, Dad. Ellie, too. This is good for all of us."

Father and son embrace. Opie knows he has a lot to make up for-time, love, everything. A lot of damage to repair. But he's willing and in a position to do so. He's spent so much time trying to make things right that he never realized that he should've been trying to make his family happy. But that shit was changing, for all of them.

"You need your wingman?"

Opie swallows the lump as his throat as he looks at his son proudly. "No thanks, son. I got this."

**~(&)~**

"Hey."

Opie's breath was hot on her neck, the strands of his hair that poke out of his beanie tickle her jawline. Still holding Laney in her arms, she presses the side of her cheek against his.

"Hey."

She watches him run a long finger down their daughter's face lovingly. "You think she's getting spoiled?" he enquires. "She's always in your arms."

"Oh like you should be talking" she shoots back, good naturedly. "Mr. That Mattress is too thin, my arms provide better support."

"What can I say." He wraps an arm around her waist through the covers and presses his lips against her shoulder. "I don't like having either of my girls out of my reach."

Before she can respond, she feels him remove his arm and the weight of his body leave the bed. He's standing up, reaching into his pocket. Before he completely removes whatever's there, he drops down to his knee.

"But I'd rather hold my wife." He holds up a blue box, flipping it open. "Marry me, Avery."

Her heart thunders against her chest and seems to move upwards into her throat. She's been waiting for this moment for what feels like a lifetime. She wants to scream "Yes" from the rooftop but she can barely find the breath to speak. She carefully shifts Laney into one arm before offering her hand to Opie.

As it's been in the past, no words are necessary. He understands her gestures. She thinks back on the words from one of her favorite books. Emily Bronte seemed to be speaking to her from the worn paper of the school issued copy of Wuthering Heights. 

"He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."

Without words, Opie puts the ring on her finger and wrapped her up in an embrace. Mindful of the baby, she sagged against him, wishing she could just melt into him. After too many years of unhappiness and later simple contentment, she had everything she ever dreamed of in her hands and arms.

**2030**

Laney looks into the sea of people covering the football field, placing a hand above her eyes to shield the early evening sun as she searches for her family. Her eyes immediately land on her father who, as usual, is about two heads taller than the rest of the crowd. The streaks of silver that decorate his deep red hair glimmer in the light. Though she can see him, he seems oblivious to her at the moment. She can tell by the awed look on his face that he's staring at her mother. She's a big fan of romantic comedies and she's read just about everything by Nora Roberts and Nicholas Sparks, but she doesn't know of any love stories, real or fictional, that rivals her parents'.

Her mother is the first to break their love trance, her green eyes quickly finding Laney. She quickly makes her way through the crowd, her father and younger sister following hot on her nude leather covered heels. Laney watches with equal parts pride and embarrassment as the heads of her classmates' fathers turn, their eyes fixating on how her fifty two year old mother can still rock the hell out of an off white, clingy cotton knee length dress and five inch slingback sandals.

Comfortably sandwiched between her parents, Laney just laughs and smiles as her usually laid back mother turns into a dictator. She instructs Paloma and Opie how to take pictures before taking over the role as photographer. She takes pictures with one hand as she makes calls to the older siblings with the other. Laney humors her mom, randomly wondering if this was the Avery that wiped the court room floors with so many D.A.s and prosecutors before she retired a year ago to focus on her ever growing clan of children and grandchildren.

"We're really proud of you." Her dad isn't an emotional guy. He's the strong, steady backbone of their family unit, leaning back and letting Avery be the mouth piece. His words are sparse and sincere so she takes his sentiment to heart.

"Thanks, Dad" she says, squeezing him the arm that isn't holding her diploma.

He leans down, not too far considering she's over six foot in the wedges she's wearing, and places a kiss on her forehead. "I know you're not too sure about what you wanna do, but there's always a place for you at the office."

As much as Laney loves her family, she knows that working at Piermont's is not for her. She knows squat about paperwork and though she can throw a meaner punch than most chicks her age, she's not tough enough to go out on repo calls. She knows her mother wants her to go to college, but at the same time doesn't want her too far from home. She's still holding on-albeit loosely. But Laney knows she's not too keen on her first born leaving the nest and quite honestly, Laney isn't sure she's ready for that either. In her most rebellious moments, her mother stressed the importance of 'roots and wings'. Surrounded by her family, Laney clings to her roots.

Her mother, finally void of the phone and camera, approaches to embrace her once again. She hugs her tightly and whispers words that lead Laney to believe that she really does possess that 'psychic' mom superpower that allows her to read her children's thoughts.

"Don't worry, baby, you'll find your wings."

**A/N#2: My goal with this story was to leave Opie in a better place than Sutter left him and I think I accomplished that. Like ****Eve Levine****, I thought Opie would be the last man standing but since he wasn't this story was so, so necessary to my psyche. **

**Check back in with me for the publication of new material. I've been writing away and have some good stuff in store for my patient readers! **


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